John is in the kitchen teaching the Tango to one of his friends. She brought a pair of high heels, because everyone knows a woman needs heels to tango. A twirling skirt would be helpful too, but this is her first lesson. Our house has resembled a dormitory or a frat house this past week. My oldest son and his band from Boston are in town for the SouthBySouthWest music festival in Austin. My middle son came in for the weekend, so we had all of our own sons, plus several honorary ones, these past few days.
Being an (almost) empty-nester, I welcome the life, the creativity, the high spirits, and yes, even the noise.
This situation hasn't left me a lot of time to write, but I am of the school of thought that if you don't take the time to live what have you got to write about?
I do know of some purists who go and lock themselves away in a cabin in order to produce their great literary opus, but a very long time ago I made the decision (and life in all it's wonderful messiness led me to this decision) that writing is a reflection on life, not a substitute for life.
Creating is an act of will, as much as it is a function of temperament and talent. My husband and children all devote a great deal of time and energy to their various pursuits like music, art, photography, writing, and, naturally actually living their lives. They continue to be my best teachers and have provided the fodder for much of what I have written.
One of these days I'll put on a pair of high heels and a twirly skirt and ask my son to teach me how to tango. Then, after that marinates a bit, I might write about it.